


it's all you know

by greatwonfidence



Category: youtube - Fandom
Genre: Blood, Death, M/M, Mafia AU, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 04:29:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11775531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greatwonfidence/pseuds/greatwonfidence
Summary: All Julian wants is a family.





	1. it was easy, then

**Author's Note:**

> this started out as a mafia au and turned into sad-men-do-drugs-and-other-things au. whoops.  
> follow me on [tumblr](http://greatwonfidence.tumblr.com/) for updates and uhhh yeah that's it  
> thanks to the discord for enabling me and to destiny + dan for proofreading for me (what do the kids call it? beta? yeah)  
> bye :D

Julian sits back in the hard plastic chair. He thinks, for the millionth time, how they need to get new, cushier seats installed, at least in the front row. He owns the place; he and his husband should be comfortable while spectating the fights. He smiles at DD’s shout of approval when the boxer they always bet on clocks the other in the face.

“The visitor is awful,” DD notes, crossing his legs. “He’s practically handing Chris the win.”

“No, he isn’t.” Julian says, picking up his beer to take a sip. “Chris works hard and earns every win he gets. Nothing’s handed to him.”

DD chuckles, then brings his attention back to the fight. “Of course. He _is_ making it easy, though.”

Julian smirks and watches Chris stand tauntingly over the other boxer while the referee counts down, crowd buzzing in the background. He means that, one hundred percent. He knows about Chris’s climb from the bottom, knows about everything he went through to get to where he is today. He sees himself in that, his own struggle from being a homeless teenager to being named one of the biggest drug dealers in a city far, far away from home.

 

Julian thinks of himself as a self-made man, through and through; he wasn't always at the top.

He was born in the middle of California in the dead heat of one of the worst summers the community had ever experienced. Drought didn't even begin to describe it. And with the water went the success of business after business, a chain of destruction due to the dependent nature of it all. The thirst, in every sense of what one could thirst for, was maddening, drove people to wild extents in desperate search of the thrill of calling something their own.

Short, chubby Mexican kid, shuffling his way through high school with his head down. Good margin-doodler, but bad grades on the rest of the page. Didn’t quite fit into lockers, but the football team tried their best. He spent his study halls with his head in a textbook; eyes scanning the page, word after word, turning pages, pages, pages - absorbing none of it. And he was fine with the way things were, simply drifting through his life. Never thinking too long on what would come next. Focus wasn’t his thing.

Not then, at least.

But tides change; feelings blossom, drinks are poured, music plays off records in parlors. It's 1979 when his father catches him in the basement with a hand down another boy’s pants, and just like that Julian no longer has a home. His few belongings he has time to gather fall from his trembling arms as the door slams shut behind him, cutting him off from his flesh and blood. The other boy refuses to look at him.

“My parents are going to kill me if I go home,” he says, tears in his eyes. He’s sixteen, and Julian is seventeen. His heart aches more for this high school sophomore's sake than his own.

“Come with me,” Julian says, voice cracking. He hopes the boy doesn't ask where, because he has no idea. He just knows he needs someone to walk with. The words echo on the otherwise-silent street, bounce around the shitty cul-de-sac Julian would’ve been elated to get away from, under different circumstances.

“Not a chance, faggot.” He all but spits in Julian’s face, pivoting on his heel and storming off up the road, out of the safety of the street lamp’s glow. Julian wants to be angry, but he sees the fear for his own life in the boy’s clenched jaw, the heat in his cheeks, and he understands that he wasn’t the bad guy.

As if to punctuate that he was no better off, the light flickers and dissipates, plunging him and the world around into a harsh darkness. And then he is alone.

And he continues to be alone, for quite some time. He searches for a new place to stay every night, each having to be cheaper than the last. He moves north and east; not sure where to go, just knowing that California isn't going to cut it anymore.

He picks up coins from sidewalks and finds a payphone after two weeks, hoping to contact his parents. His mother answers initially and gasps his name, and he has a split second of hope, a glimmer of _something_ tightening in his chest - and then his father takes the phone and growls into it to never call again. The family bond completely severs with a mechanical _click_ too formal to be real and Julian stands there for a few minutes, still clutching the receiver with both hands, too shocked to put it back on the hook.

He sinks to the floor of the phone booth and sits there for two hours, sobbing, not caring that the walls are transparent and people are pointing at him as they shuffle by. Night falls; he wipes his eyes, stands up on shaky legs, and looks for a semi-private place to sleep.

 

It starts with using, of course.

After a few months of working in short bursts wherever men would take him in order to afford the next bus ticket, he finds himself in Colorado, working as a dishwasher at a Mexican restaurant.

"You'd think they'd want you cookin', huh, Jul?" a waitress jokes, untying her apron and setting it on the counter. Julian smiles softly and shrugs. He knows he's going to move again soon - can't afford the motel much longer. He doesn't want to get attached to anyone here, but they're all too friendly; it's hard for him to stay as aloof as he'd like. He didn't even want to tell his coworkers his name, but he can't be rude to a face as pretty as hers, and word spreads fast.

The waitress can tell he's stressed. "Come and take a break, big guy," she says, pulling a joint out of her front pocket. “’M going outside.”

He nods, setting his steel wool down and following her out back. The line cook steps out from the shadow of the dumpster upon the door opening, cigarette hanging from his lips.

“Oh! You're too good to me, Mary," he says, hand over his heart. The waitress lights the joint before passing it to him.

"You talkin' to me or the pot?" she giggles. He grins back. Julian feels out of place, intruding on their familiar dynamic. He watches the smoke puff out of the older man's lips, waits for him to speak next.

"You smoke, kid?" he asks, squinting. Julian's almost eighteen years old; of course he knows about pot, but no, he hasn't smoked it.

"Yeah," he lies, and accepts it being placed in his hand. He's aware of the eyes on him when he brings it to his lips and inhales, and immediately starts hacking like his lung is trying desperately to escape through his mouth.

Mary bursts into a fit of laughter. The cook - Julian thinks his name is Damon - takes the joint back and slaps his back a handful of times, just until he stops coughing.

"Ohh," Julian exhales, chest still heaving. "Ow."

“You'll get used to it," Damon says, chuckling. He hands it to Mary, and it comes back to Julian shortly; he does better each time, but it still burns.

Their break lasts a long while.

 

He stays in Littleton a lot longer than he'd planned. Against all better judgment, he moves in with Damon. Who's nice, it's comfortable. He tries to call his mother once a week, but nobody picks up after that first time.

Mary comes by every weekend after they all get off of work, and eventually she starts bringing more than weed with her. She promises Julian that this new stuff won’t hurt his already-unhealthy lungs, but the mere sight of the fluid sloshing around in the bent spoon is enough to make his chest ache in worry.

She sets the lighter down and picks up the syringe, movements mechanical, like she's done it a thousand times before. Damon pats Julian's back, harder than necessary, and tells him to roll up his sleeve.

"This'll make you feel good," he says.

It does make him feel good. The rest of the night is a complete blur, but he knows he feels happy with these two, his new family, and he supposes that's what he's been after this whole time.

 

A few months later Mary is moved in. She pulls Julian aside one evening and quietly asks him to pick up for them for the first time. He sputters in disbelief, tries to convince her he can't. But she's insistent, and it's a little flattering how much she believes in him - so he goes to the address, an alleyway by a closed-down pizza shop. He's painfully aware of how he's shaking excessively, even considering the piles of snow on the ground.

"You Julian?" a voice asks from behind him. He almost yelps, does stumble, and catches himself against the brick wall. The guy looks surprised, eyebrows high on his bald head. The lip stud is a little jarring, but Julian supposes that it's close to what he had expected a man named Stamper to look like.

"Oh! Yes," he says, hand over his heart. Stamper laughs at the motion, like a dog barking.

"You don't gotta go under oath, bro, I don't give a shit," he says. "If you got the money, I'll give you whatever." He pulls a paper from his pocket and glances at his own scrawling. "Four hundred's what Mary said, yeah?"

Julian narrows his eyes and shakes his head. "Three-seventy, she said."

"Uh-uh. Four even, bro."

"All I have is what she gave me," he says, suddenly terrified of this guy's piercing eyes again. Stamper stares him down, but he only manages to scowl for a few seconds before his face splits into a grin.

"I'm just fuckin' with you, dude. It would be four hundred but, you know, I like Mary. And I like you, too. How old are you?"

Julian feels like lying to this man wouldn't be in his best interests. He shivers in the cold. ”Eighteen."

"Bad home life?" He calls over his shoulder, bending down to pick up the wrapped package that was hidden from sight. Julian pulls the money out of his coat pocket, rubbing the soft, worn paper between his fingers.

"No home life, really." Stamper clicks his tongue and they trade what they're holding.

"That's too bad. You seem like a sweet kid." He counts through the bills while Julian stuffs the package into his backpack, placing the sweater on top like Mary had instructed. Can't go to jail before you try ecstasy, she told him. Stamper tucks the bills away and grabs the receipt out of his pocket again. "Got a pen?

"Yeah." Julian pulls one out of his pocket and Stamper takes it, scribbling something at the bottom of the paper. He tears that part off and thrusts it and the pen into Julian's hands.

"Have an _excellent_ night, valued customer," he says with the cadence of a showman, "and call again if you need me. And..." His voice drops suddenly. "Tell Mary I miss her, alright?”

Julian nods, waves, and turns around, leaving the alleyway, overcome with relief that the interaction ended nicely. There were too many ways it could've gone wrong. The street feels too bright now, lights everywhere. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices the pizza shop's sign flicker to life, but only for a moment.

 

He makes it home fast and without getting stopped. The door to the apartment is unlocked - of course, it always is - and he lets himself in. Damon throws his hands up with a lazy grin and a casual "ayy," almost knocking over his beer in the process.

“I knew you’d do fine. Not even a single stab wound!” Mary says, smiling at him. Julian’s proud of himself and his heart swells at the compliment.

“I was so nervous,” he admits. “But Stamper was really nice. He misses you, by the way.”

Mary’s smile drops immediately at the name, and so does Damon’s. There's a beat of silence. He slowly turns to his girlfriend and Julian realizes he’s made a terrible, irreversible mistake.

“You still pick up from Stamper?” Damon's tone is deadpan, like he's more stating than asking. Mary clasps her hands together and sets her jaw.

"He gives it to me cheaper," she says. Damon jumps to his feet, towers over her. Julian's back is against the door, watching it play out, paralyzed.

“Are you fucking Stamper again?" Damon accuses, loudly. Mary shakes her head violently.

“No. No, I’m not, Damon. I’m with _you_.”

“And you told me you found another dealer.” He points at Julian, maintaining eye contact with his girlfriend, voice raising with every syllable. “You fucking him, too? You fucking my roommate?”

Mary groans indignantly. “Oh, get off- he's _gay_ , you idiot!”

Damon stops suddenly, eyes narrow. He turns to Julian in the same menacing fashion. “You’re _gay?”_

“Uh. Yes?” Julian says, hands instinctively held up as if to protect himself. He didn’t tell either of them the reason he was kicked out of his house, but has it really never come up otherwise? Damon’s shoulders relax and he inhales sharply as he seems to mentally make a decision.

“You need to get the fuck out of here.”

“What?” No. Not again.

“Get your stuff and go. I want you gone in fifteen minutes.”

“Damon, knock it off-“ Mary reaches out to touch his arm, and Damon retaliates by grabbing her wrist roughly and shouting again. Julian stops listening to what they’re screaming at each other, the sounds drowning into the background. He shuffles into his bedroom and closes the door behind him.

He opens the package and leaves everything on his bed except for two of the ecstasy pills, which he shoves into the bottom of his backpack. He looks around his self-proclaimed “minimalist” room and realizes that in his eight months in Colorado, he hasn’t collected much at all in terms of belongings. He has money and some clothes. Once he fits it all into his bag, that's it. That’s all of his mark in Littleton - he washed some dishes, tried a handful of drugs, and ruined a relationship between two people who he thought loved each other.

He slings the backpack over his shoulder and walks out of his bedroom, by his still-arguing roommates, and leaves behind his second family in the past year. It feels like the sound of a door shutting won’t ever stop hurting.

The receptionist at the motel recognizes him and greets him with a knowing smile. Julian wonders if he somehow does know.

In the morning, he uncurls the paper Stamper gave to him, and dials the number written on it.

 

Julian is lucky. Very lucky. Stamper was meaning to get someone to handle the numbers side of things.

"I know I gotta be doin' _something_ right, or else I wouldn't have been making any profit all these years," Stamper tells Julian. They're in the office of his apartment. It's above the abandoned pizza shop; Julian's no expert, but he doesn't think selling from one's residence is the greatest idea.

He says so, with a concerned look. Stamper claps his hand over Julian's shoulder - he's growing tired of people doing that to him - and chuckles.

"I don't usually. But Mary, Mary's a friend. I trust her. And I trust you." His other hand comes up, and both skate slowly to settle at either side of the base of Julian's throat; his already-low voice takes on a tone of danger as he whispers in the otherwise-empty apartment. "Don't think there's any wiggle room to that trust. You're either here and you're cool, or you're out on the street again with a bullet in that pretty head of yours. Get it?"

Julian's heart is about to pop out of his chest. He nods, praying the other man can't feel the sweat on his neck.

"Awesome. Get started on those papers," Stamper practically sings, mood switching drastically, "and call for me if you got any questions, yeah?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

He listens for the footsteps to diminish completely, then sets to work filling out papers based off of the chicken scratch he'd been provided with. All of his receipts look the same - unsteady lines forming letters and numbers, several attempted equations scribbled out before he finally manages to get the sums balanced at the bottom. It's strange how much of a paper trail he leaves, considering he's selling drugs, but who's Julian to comment? He isn't in any position comparable to Stamper's.

But he's realizing that he doesn't much like being threatened. He's one step up from before - Stamper's paying him to stay at his apartment and do math and make initial orders. No more sleeping in alleyways or in seedy motels. He doesn't intend to ever go back to life the way it was.

In fact, he plans to do quite the opposite.

 

Six years fly by in a haze. Julian's shocked that Mary and Damon have never contacted either of them after. He wonders how she's doing, but knows it's not his place to check in.

Slowly, the way their business works changes. More and more of Stamper's responsibilities are tacked on to Julian's - whether it's him trying to be slick, or some intrusive laziness developing, it seems that all Stamper does now is meet with the customers. Julian's pay hasn't been adjusted to account for this, and he knows how much they're raking in - he does the paperwork, after all.

Not for want of trying, of course. He's attempted several times to convince him the cut should be even. He isn't selfish; he won't ask for more than half of what Stamper started and merely allowed him to join. But Stamper always laughs and insists it's correct the way things are.

"It really isn't, though," Julian says, halfway through their drive to Illinois. They've uprooted and are moving; one of Stamper's friends is leaving Naperville, so there are shoes to fill, bigger shoes than those that they’ve left behind in Littleton. The city is a suburb of Chicago - Julian's nervous, but his business partner insists they'll be safe with the customers his friend is leaving them.

"You shootin' up early?" Stamper laughs from the driver's side of the car. Julian rolls his eyes. "Hope that shit subsides in a few hours, you gotta take your turn driving."

"I mean it, Stamper," he says. "And just because the Herreras are behind bars now doesn't mean it's suddenly a safety zone.”

"You worry too much. Calm your pretty face." He reaches over and grabs Julian's chin, shaking his head playfully. "I'm the one that's in danger, delivering and meeting up. You're totally safe in the back, doin’ the back work, where you belong."

 _Where I belong._ Julian sighs and sits back in the seat, annoyed at himself for being unable to resist getting pushed around.

"When I get shot and die in Chicago, you can have the whole business, baby. Promise."

 _It isn't a bad idea,_ Julian thinks, gazing out the window at the interstate.


	2. ii. killing the past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family is important. Julian meets the love of his life.

He's always been agile and slick, and cunning in ways his parents thought could only be hereditary. DD was never made privy to the knowledge that his parents were contract killers; he found out on his own, by snooping through their home office and eavesdropping on the phone calls his mother would make in hushed tones with the door closed.

He's nine when he corners his dad in the garage, when he catches him red-handed (and red-clothed, blood dripping and pooling on the tarp that always lay on the cement for some unexplained reason). He drills his father about where he's been, doesn't step out of the way despite being threatened with the bloody tools clutched in his father's hand.

His mother has to intervene, DD's baby brother crying in her arms, to scold the two of them for making so much noise so late at night. Her hair is up in curlers and her nose is upturned in disgust - to DD's pleasure, her annoyance isn't directed at him.

"Of course he's figuring it out, you _dolt_ , he lives here," she whisper-shouts, hand gliding along the wall until she finds the switch to completely close the garage door, praying the neighbors hadn't heard a thing. She takes a deep breath and places her hand on her son's shoulder, guiding him to move toward the stairs. "Your father's going to go clean up and then we're going to have a talk in the parlor."

 

Chicago is a nice city. It's pretty, in that way that only the residents understand. It has gardens and zoos, fancy restaurants and parks; plenty of places to bring children and bond with your family. 

But the Korzeniowski family doesn't function like most others do. DD tries to insist he's ready sooner, but his parents don't take him to the shooting range until he's eleven. The smallest gun barely fits in his hands, tiny but steady yet. He learns easily how to control every weapon they pass to him well, like he was born to carry a knife in his mouth. In 1975 his mother makes a dramatic show of giving him a weapon to call his own, as a birthday present - a shiny new FN Barracuda. The polished wood handle feels so smooth; if his hands weren't rough and calloused from scraping against bark and pavement, from the twisting and tiring dance his parents call "training," it'd slip right through onto the kitchen tiles.

"You know what this is, right?" she asks, leaning against the counter, lit cigarette in hand.

"A revolver," he answers. He turns it over in his hands several times. He catches his muddled reflection in the dark metal and wills himself not to smile despite his overwhelming joy. "It's beautiful. Thank you." 

His mom grins and pinches one of his cheeks, kissing him firmly on the other one. "Anything for my little protégée. Now, go change - your father's coming to get you for your surprise."

 

He's filled in on the drive. A job his father is confident they can handle together.

"Already checked it out, no cameras in the complex," the man says, peering out of the corner of his eye at his fidgeting son. His huge hand lands hard on DD's shoulder, making him flinch. "Relax, kiddo. It'll be the simplest job you'll ever do."

"I'd hope so, it's my first." He doesn't think it's funny, he was being serious, but his father's barking laughter makes him crack into a smile.

"You'll be fine. We're almost there. Your mom's present loaded?"

"Mhm." He spins the chamber as evidence, listening to the satisfying metallic rattle.

"You'll find a woman as great as her someday," his father muses. DD's heart skips a beat and he gives a noncommittal mumble.

 _Not now_ , he tells himself. _Not for a while._

They reach the cluster of apartments and DD's head spins. He's done simulation after simulation in the basement at home and had several talks with his parents' various "contacts" (and then eavesdropped as said contacts berated them for teaching him so early). But now it's real, and he's going to shoot something that isn't a piece of paper or a straw-stuffed doll vaguely shaped like a body. He's going to watch the blood pour and the life leave this person's eyes. He isn't so sure he's ready for that anymore.

He follows close after exiting the car, only a few steps behind, gloved hands in his sweatshirt pockets. He tries to note everything - the car being left on idle with the lights off, the powder-blue gloves adorning his father's hands instead of thermal ones like his own ("you're fine, just don't touch anything," he'd said), the fact that the front door's resistance to being opened was due to caked-on ice, not a lock. His father leads the way to the door prominently labeled with a number five and slowly, soundlessly opens the door.

DD knows what he's supposed to do. He creeps in, right hand on the gun's handle, one step at a time, acutely aware of the fact that he isn't being followed. His father is trusting him to not fuck up - forget danger and consequence, the fear of disappointing his father is the only motive he needs. He pictures the apartment's layout in his head as he saw it printed out on the way - the encapsulating darkness makes it difficult, but he can feel under his worn work shoes where kitchen becomes carpeted hallway and he knows it's the second left.

The door had been left ajar. Moonlight from the window casts a vampiric glow onto the fast-asleep figure lying in the bed - an unintentional casket.

The target is old. DD wants to look around the room, take in things about this man - who would want _him_ dead? What did he do wrong? - but he can feel his father's impatience from where he stands outside. DD pulls the gun out of his pocket, holds it steady mere inches from the target's forehead, and pulls the trigger.

He wasn't ready for the blood. He was told he was ready, told _himself_ he was ready, but it splatters against the headboard, thick and viscous, a deep carmine expulsion behind the man's head, like a wing unfolding.

DD's shoulders quiver as he lowers his arms, and he keeps his iron grip on the gun. White-knuckled, he stares at the target, blurred vision marring his ability to tell if he's still alive.

Eyelashes still. Mouth slightly agape and head lolled back. DD isn't sure he _could_ hear any breaths under his own near-hyperventilating, but when he manages to quiet himself, nothing falls on his ears. 

Absolute silence.

He can feel God's eyes bearing down on him like knives in his shoulderblades as he walks back to the entryway and his father nods solemnly.

"Would you do it again?" He asks on the drive back. DD clenches his jaw and brushes his fingertips against the barrel of the gun in his lap, still warm.

“Yeah,” he says.

He finds out later (eavesdropping on a phone call - old habits die hard) that the old man had put the hit out for himself. It was more assisted suicide than murder. DD thinks that may be better, if only slightly.

 

Things continue like that, for a while, for a few years. His father tags along and DD just helps, does what he says. The division of power slides, gradually, and then suddenly he’s unleashed, at the age of seventeen. The freedom is jarring. There’s no safety net if he slips up, but even when it was there, he rarely needed it. It’s easy to get comfortable but the key is to never allow that. Comfort and familiarity beget mistakes. He has scars to remind him of that. Bullets that merely graze skin still hurt like a bitch.

But that’s how his life is. Job after job. Bullet after bullet, buried in the skulls of liars and thieves, lodged inside the ribcages of immoral men that stopped living long before he got to them. DD justifies each killing with the knowledge that they were bad people. That they were making others’ lives worse. He isn’t a destroyer, just a fixer. It makes the puddles of blood and dead eyes easier to face.

 

He’s twenty-four now and taking his dad's black car, with its handful of bullet holes and ever-changing license plate, to the harbor at three in the morning. Mask on, stubby bunny ears resting against the front of his hood. (Mr. Korzeniowski wasn't a fan of his son's design, but the Mrs. thought it was incredible.) The sky is dark but the fairy lights lining the water cast a spirited glow on everything.

Engine idle, lights off. He double checks that his knife is still strapped to his ankle and his revolver is still at his waist, and walks down the dock, footsteps barely sounding. Perceptible, perhaps, to someone who's expecting a visitor; but an unsuspecting man who's made just _one_ too many mistakes in his short life won't know to hear anything above the lapping waves.

 _Lyle's always up working late_ , DD's contact had told him. It's unknown if Lyle has any weapons for company, but DD's armed to the teeth and itching to complete a mission after the dry period he's had.

He could navigate this beach with his eyes closed if he wanted, with how heavily he studied the layout in preparation. He leaves footprints in the sand when he crosses towards the building, but he'll burn the soft canvas shoes after the job is done. 

The only window without its blinds drawn sits behind Lyle, giving DD a perfect shot even at this distance - assuming the glass isn't bulletproof. The beach smells like cotton candy and saltwater taffy; it reminds him of running in flip flops as a child to the ferris wheel in the closing of many summers. The defunct machine lilts pathetically on the other side of the harbor.

He sets up behind a triad of metallic trash barrels and kneels down. Through the scope of his gun he watches Lyle's nails scratch at the nape of his neck absentmindedly. He runs through scenarios in his mind. If the bullet doesn't pierce the glass, or misses, cover here, diversion shot to the right-

"Mister?"

He nearly pulls the trigger when he hears the small voice behind him. He spins around, carving an arc in the sand and dirtying his jeans. He comes face to face with a little girl, shorter than the trash barrels. Her auburn hair ceases at her waist and her brown doe-eyes shine of their own accord. He stares, hoping she’ll speak first. When she doesn’t after a few seconds, he waves his hand in an attempt to say _out with it._

“Do you kill people?” she asks. Her voice is too gentle for words like that, he thinks.

“What?”

“I want you to kill somebody for me.”

“Where is your mom?” He tucks the revolver back into its holster. She shakes her head and points into Lake Michigan.

“She’s across the water,” she says. “My daddy doesn’t let me see her.”

“Okay,” he says. He peeks behind him and sees that the blinds of the office have been drawn now. _Shit_. He takes the girl’s hand in his and leads her back towards his car. He doesn’t want a fight, of course, but still he cringes at how willingly she follows him, a complete stranger.

“My name is Jane Hardy,” she tells him. “My daddy’s name is Evan Hardy.”

“Where is your dad?” he asks. She kicks a pile of sand as they walk.

“At home. I couldn’t bring him with me.”

“Why not?”

Jane stops walking then and squeezes DD’s hand, prompting him to look at her. 

“My daddy is a bad man,” she whispers, maintaining desperate eye contact. He wonders if she’s rehearsed this, if he’s not the first person she’s come to. “He should go to jail. But I think it would be better if he was dead.”

DD pulls off his mask with his free hand. His heart hammers in his chest. This isn’t his problem - but maybe it should be.

“Does he hurt you?” he asks. Jane nods.

“And yells. And throws things.” She stuffs her hand into her hoodie pocket and pulls out a few crumpled bills. She presses the bunch into DD’s hand and firmly whispers, “I want you to kill my daddy so I can go back to my mommy.”

DD looks down at the seven, maybe eight dollars in his hand, and then back to Jane’s face. 

“Okay,” he says. “Come in my car. You’ll have to go home tonight, but I can take care of him soon.”

Jane’s eyes light up even more than before and her face breaks into a grin. “Thank you, Mister!”

“Yeah,” he says, allowing her hand to slip back into his. “No problem. Can you answer a few things for me?” 

 

Jane is attentive for such a young girl. She knows where her dad works, what bar he frequents and on what nights, and her mother’s name and location (with better specificity than “across the water”). She slips back inside her home easily after his questioning, despite it being past four AM. 

He has a greater time frame for his job against Lyle. He’ll return to that soon enough - rescuing Jane is urgent. He visits home frequently, but the jobs aren’t a casual topic. Nobody asks questions. If you sat in on a family dinner in the Korzeniowski household, you’d never know the lot of them were contract killers. So he doesn’t need to explain to his professional-killer parents why he let go of a straight-shot at a major embezzler in favor of bringing a little kid home. 

How did she find him, anyway? The circumstances nag at him as he researches. Did she have access to a Tor browser? There’s quite a bit to reaching a hitman. And in person - it had to be coincidental, but at the same time, it _couldn’t_ have been. It just doesn’t make any sense, no matter how hard he considers it.

It’s surprisingly easy to reach Jane’s mother, Sabrina. She lives with her sister Mary in Escanaba. Sabrina asks him when she’ll get to see her baby again, _oh it’s been so long, sir, please bring her to me soon_ \- and it makes him smile just a little. His clients generally just give him the bare necessities to consider the interaction a conversation. He assumes his victims are bad, but he rarely sees the consequences of their actions. _This is going to heal a family_ , he tells himself, and it’s the most excited about executing a job he’s ever been.

  

DD arrives at Hugo’s shortly before last call. He wears a leather jacket like usual, a newsy cap, and fake glasses. He sips casually on a tall vodka-Sprite and watches Evan (easily spotted - Jane had even brought a photo of him in her pocket), very apparently sloppy drunk, making a fool of himself in front of several disinterested women. After about ten minutes of begging for one’s number, he stumbles away. He catches DD looking and approaches, eyes half-lidded.

“Bunch’a bitches over there,” he slurs. “Anyone sittin’ here?”

“No,” DD answers curtly. He flags down the bartender as Evan climbs onto the stool next to him. “I’ll take the check, miss.”

“Grab mine too, sweetheart,” Evan says. The tone makes DD’s skin crawl. He wonders why he wasn’t cut off already. 

The bartender returns with both slips of paper. DD places cash on top of his own and watches out of the corner of his eye as Evan gracelessly fumbles with his wallet. A couple of coins hit the wooden floor and he mutters out a curse word. DD swirls the straw around his cup of mostly ice, growing steadily impatient. Finally Evan finds his debit card and puts it down on the bar.

DD nods and smiles at the bartender when she takes both receipts. Evan taps his fist against DD’s arm twice and points at her, now that her back is turned.

“Quite a rear, huh?” he whispers, too close to DD’s face, breath reeking of alcohol. He shrugs.

“I guess so.”

“Wha’? Not an ass man?”

“Not a woman man,” he answers. He busies himself with reading the back of a martini menu as the poor server returns with Evan’s card, a worried look on her face.

“Your card declined, sir,” she says. Evan laughs, loudly, startling her.

“No it didn’t,” he says, eyes narrowing. “You’re just trying to make me pay more.”

“I promise you, sir, that isn’t-“ 

“Sure it is!” He tries to hop down from the barstool and nearly falls completely over, catching himself. “That’s all you bitches here care about, is your goddamn money. What ever happened to good service?”

“You’re going to have to give me another method of payment.” 

“Fuck off.” DD can’t believe he’s actually just leaving. He leans over and eyes the receipt, cringing at the cost. He reaches into his wallet and hands the girl forty dollars.

“Sorry about that. Keep the rest,” he says, pocketing his wallet and picking up Evan’s debit card. “I’ll get this back to him.”

The bartender thanks him as he rushes out the door, weaving through people to catch up to his target. He finds him just outside, walking up the street in the direction of his apartment. 

“Hey!” DD calls to him, holding the card up in the air. He’s stopped with an alleyway to his left. He’s surprised the street is empty, despite how late it is.

“Oh, forgot that,” Evan mumbles, stumbling to meet him. As soon as he’s close enough, DD snatches his extended wrist with his other hand and yanks him into the alley, shoving him against the brick wall. Evan doesn’t scream, just grunts and tries to wrestle out of his grasp. DD isn’t big, but he’s muscular and quick, fast to draw his knife and press it to Evan’s sweaty neck, each gasping breath bringing the skin dangerously closer.

“Do you know what you did wrong?” DD hisses. He can practically feel the anxiety radiating off the older man.

“No,” he says, after a conflicting moment of considering shaking his head. DD presses the blade closer, guiltily pleased by the man's pained exhalation.

“Think harder.”

“It’s not a crime to drink, fucker.”

“It is a crime to beat your children.” DD gets as close to his face as he can bear and squeezes his wrist harder. “Your daughter hired a hitman. How sad is that? You’re such a bad father that your own blood wants you dead.”

Evan looks equal parts shocked and resigned. “I… I don’t know what to say to that.”

“Say that you deserve this.” DD waits with gritted teeth. He watches emotion after emotion pass over Evan’s face, until finally he answers - quietly, dejectedly.

“I deserve this.”

DD slits his throat and leaves him gurgling in the alleyway, heading straight for the apartment. He’ll get Jane ready for school in the morning and then make some calls.

  

He stands on the same beachfront he met her at, sand in his hair, salt in his eyes. There’s bloodstains on his jacket, but the leather is too dark; it could be anything splattered on the material. The set of dusk does well for disguising. Without his mask, he looks the same as any other man in the city. The only other thing he’s forsaken from his ensemble is his gloves; his pale, nimble fingers curl around the much, much smaller hand of the little girl. Her smooth skin contrasts against his calloused hands. The sun’s setting, an orange glow cast over the two of them, and no one else.

“I wish I could stay with you,” Jane says, an honest venture, a gentle plea. DD realizes he sort of wishes for that, too. But the child of a renowned hitman is not a glorious role, not a set of shoes he’s eager to have filled.

“You’ll be safer somewhere else.” He hears the hiccup, the beginning of a cry, and squeezes her hand. “Nobody will hurt you where you’re going.”

“How do you know?” she asks. _She’s smart_ , he notes, _knows to ask questions._ And, truly, he doesn’t know for sure. He had located and contacted her mother, who seemed thrilled at the prospect of being reunited with her child after the father ran off with her years ago. But he doesn’t know that that’s the right environment for her. He doesn’t know that the father wasn’t saving her, odd as it sounds, from something worse. All he knows is that his men will bring her to the address he gives them, safe and sound. That's all he can do.

“I don’t,” he says, finally, unable to lie to her. The waves crash against the shoreline and the lighthouse flickers to life, anticipating nightfall. She squints at the lights penetrating the fog in the distance. 

“Is that them?” she asks. DD mutters noncommittally, waits for the convoy to get closer. He recognizes the emblem on the bow, the easily identifiable pattern in its signal. He kneels down then, looks Jane in the eyes.

“I still don’t know how you found me in the first place,” he says quietly, “but I’m glad you did. Take the money back.” He pulls out a bundle of cash, and she stares confusedly.

“That’s more.”

“I know. Keep it with you. If you need an escape… I trust you’ll be able to find me again.”

Her face contorts and her eyes well up with tears. He’s caught off guard as she falls into him, hugging tightly. He curses his terrible soft spot. What a hitman he is, giving up his hard-earned cash for a nine year old with an evil father. When did he start to mind business that wasn’t his own? Detachment from the jobs is crucial. He’s suddenly afraid to detach from her, from this.

He pats her back and pulls away as the boat reaches the shallow water. He watches her wade into the pale ocean, water up to her still-bruised knees, watches his men reach down to pull her up onto the boat. They’re talking to her, but she knows they’ve already received their instructions from DD. He waves as the engine whirs again and pushes off, and she doesn’t break eye contact until they can no longer see each other, fog closing in and sealing the boat within it. A neat closing to the job.

He thinks of her, still, from time to time. Sees her father’s grimace in other men he kills. Overhears her mother’s joy in passing conversations on the street. Feels the weight of that tearful goodbye when a job goes wrong, six years later; when he misses his target for the first time.

But before then, still on the sandy beach, he gets a phone call. He pulls the mobile phone out of his pocket. Unknown number - naturally. He answers.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Mr. Korzeniowski. Are you in town?” The voice on the other line is oddly cordial. It’s not the code-greeting his profile says the call should begin with. He’s tempted to hang up, but doesn’t.

“Who’s this?”

“My name is Julian, and I’m a potential customer for you.” The man pauses, then resumes with a lower voice. “I’d like you to meet me at the Warwick Allerton to discuss a job.” A four-star hotel; quite formal for an information meeting.

“Where did you get this number?” DD asks. He can hear the soft chuckle over the line.

“The web. Sorry, I forgot to read off the opener. Will you still meet with me tonight?”

DD rolls his eyes, but he finds Julian’s voice charming. “I can be there in twenty. We’ll speak in the lounge, I assume.”

“Of course. We can’t rush right into meeting in hotel rooms, we hardly know each other.”

DD suppresses a laugh and ends the call there.

  

He isn’t sitting in the lounge booth for long before a handsome man approaches him - heavyset, with a shiny black pompadour and a dark denim jacket with a large _J_ embroidered onto the front right pocket.

“Mr. Korzeniowski?” Julian asks. DD nods and he takes a seat across from him. “How are you doing tonight?”

“Fine,” DD answers. He retrieves a small notebook and pen from his pocket. “About your job-“

“No formalities?” He sounds disappointed. DD shrugs. He wishes he had time for it - something about Julian is intriguing, but business is business.

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright. Well, I’m currently in an equal partnership that isn’t quite equal, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes. What’s your line of work?”

“Drugs.” It comes as a surprise, but DD tries not to let it show.

“Okay. Your partner’s name?”

“William Stamper. We were operating in Littleton, but we recently moved out here. Y’know, with some potential competitors leaving - people are still buying, right? We wanted to swoop in and win the desperate customers over before anyone else could.”

“It’s just the two of you, and he’s taking more of the money?”

“Yeah. I do the paperwork, so I don’t know how he thought he’d get away with it. I know I could manage the whole business myself, but he’d never allow me more than I have.” Julian chuckles softly, again, and DD’s heart skips a beat. “It's been like this for years now. I just want him out of the way. Make it look like an accident, or don’t. I don’t care. Do it however you like to.”

“Is there a particular date you need this done by?” 

“In the next month.”

DD nods and flips to the next page, scribbles out a number, and passes it to Julian. “Gonna need half up front.”

“Okay. I can give it all to you now, if you want.”

That’s… unusual. He highballs because people like to barter - he’s never gotten anyone to accept the first number, let alone pay in full straight away. He shakes his head.

“That’s unnecessary,” he says. “Half now, half when it’s done.” 

“Aw, you just wanna see me again.” Julian snickers. Heat rises to DD’s face and he rolls his eyes.

“It’s procedure.”

“Sure.”

 

DD’s thankful for the ample timeframe. He finally gets around to fulfilling his outstanding assignment and executes Lyle - a tad sloppier than he usually is, given the fact that he had to knock out his assistant, who’s now in jail, for walking in. As the living accomplice, he inherited the full brunt of the punishment for the crime, despite claiming to have no memory of working with Lyle. Unfortunate. 

He sits at his desk and shuffles through the few pages of information he collected from Julian. His eyes fall on the last page, which is taken up by a sketch Julian did of Stamper. He’s still amazed at how fast he was able to draw a realistic face, and how humble Julian was about it.

_“It’s not that good. I could do better.”_

_Stupid_ , DD thinks to himself, shaking his head and moving back to the paramount intel. Julian says they keep everything in their shared apartment, but sell from a crumbling convenience store. People place orders through Julian, and Stamper’s the one that hands everything out when fed the codeword Julian gives once the order is complete and payment is either processed or promised. Julian is the drug business. Stamper is the convenience store.

There’s no cameras in the store, but killing Stamper there would put Julian in jeopardy. Same result if the hit occurred in the apartment - disposal would then be on them.

 _“Korzeniowskis make messes,”_ his father used to say. _“We don’t clean them.”_  

 _“Some of us clean them!”_ his mother would interject, laughing.

DD has never been a fan of staging accidents. They take far too much effort, especially with a drug-dealing target. Stamper is bound to have enemies. There are other people that want him dead, he’s sure. 

Something in him becomes restless when he faces the fact that eliminating Stamper puts Julian at the forefront of the business. Which, yes, is the point - but it’s fraught with danger. He finds himself distressed over how much he cares for this man he met with for an hour. _Something to worry about another time,_ he thinks, returning to plotting where and when to execute.

 

He runs a casual surveillance of the store to be sure Julian left nothing out. He wears sunglasses and jogging clothes, stopping in under the guise of buying a drink. The store is totally empty besides the cashier. Stamper looks _exactly_ as Julian drew him - bald head shining under the fluorescent lights, painted nails a dark contrast to his otherwise pale skin. Most of the shelves are half-stocked, and the cooler is no exception; all he has to choose from is Gatorade and spring water. He takes the blue Gatorade and places it on the counter. Stamper eyes him suspiciously - or maybe that’s just his face.

“Will that be _all_ , sir?” he asks, putting emphasis on _all_. He expects him to buy more.

“Uh…” DD struggles to think of something else. “Do you have cigarettes?”

Stamper waves a hand dramatically behind him at the blank wall. “Does it look like we have cigarettes, dipshit?”

“Okay. That’s all, then.”

Stamper sighs. “One dollar.” 

DD hands him a single bill. He notes that the older man’s hands shake slightly. He doesn’t press anything on the register, just pulls the drawer open. The register probably doesn’t work at all.

“Have a fan-fuckin’-tastic day,” Stamper says. DD nods and leaves.

  

DD concludes that he’s best off killing Stamper somewhere equidistant between the store and the apartment. He returns that night, hood and mask on, hiding in the shadows, watching what route he takes. He takes careful note of what roads are populated after the shop closes and which have street lamps with burnt-out bulbs.

When the time comes it isn’t hard. Stamper’s kind of an idiot, it turns out, walking alone at night with headphones on. (Though it is sort of endearing, the way he dances to the music in his ears as he walks.) He turns the corner onto one of those dead-light streets and DD pulls his gun and one hole in the back of the head later, it’s over. DD’s about to step over the body when he pauses. He doesn’t fancy himself a thief, but he’s always wanted a Walkman, so he stuffs that into his backpack before searching for a payphone to report his “discovery.”

 

DD drums his fingers impatiently against the table of the booth they first met at, two weeks ago. Wham! plays over the speakers, toying with his nerves. He’s about to get up and leave when he sees Julian come through the glass doors.

He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. He’s still dressed the same, but his thick hair doesn’t look as tended to as it did before. He spots DD after a few seconds and walks over, slipping into the booth.

“You look terrible,” DD says, concerned. Julian forces a laugh.

“Thanks, I am.” He produces an envelope from his pocket and slides it across the table. “Make sure that’s right for me.”

DD pushes it aside. “Julian. Are you okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” He yawns. “It’s a little harder than I thought it would be. Had to move all our goods to a friend’s place for the time being to be safe. I keep expecting the police to knock on the door to question me, but it’s like nobody knew we were business partners.” He looks away then, seemingly embarrassed. “I think that nobody did know.”

“I’m sorry.” DD tentatively places his hand on top of Julian’s. Julian looks at their hands and feigns a gasp.

“Trying to take advantage of me while I’m emotionally vulnerable! I’m appalled, Mr. Korzeniowski.”

“I’m not-!” DD jumps to defend himself before noticing the smirk on the other man’s face. He shakes his head, laughing. “Just call me DD. No need to be so formal.”

“Well, DD, if you don’t have anyone else to kill today, what do you say we go get something to eat?”

DD smiles and picks up the envelope. “Sure. I’ll pay.”

“What a gentleman.”

  

Things progress rather quickly from there. Julian has little trouble picking up where Stamper left off. It’s easier this way; Stamper always forgot codes and had to check slips of paper, and would (more often than he’d admit) hand out the wrong packages. Julian takes pride in the streamlined handling he has on it now. DD helps him out when he’s between jobs. He repaints the convenience store one day when Julian’s out of town and pays to restock a good portion of it.

“It was pretty obviously a front for drugs,” he says after surprising him with it. “Now it’s debatable.”

Julian thanks him with a kiss and a free bag of weed. Perks of dating a guy that sells drugs.

  

They both take two weeks off to travel around the country, spending a couple days here, a few days there. They come back with engagement rings and change the story whenever someone asks.

 

1986.

DD smoothes down his white suit jacket in the mirror and pushes his hair back. He feels like his reflection is incomplete without his mask. He can hear the church's music begin, emanating from the main room. His father appears behind him in the reflection.

"Julian's a lucky man, to land such a handsome devil," he says, pride in his son clear in his voice. “You get your looks from your mother.” DD huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. 

"Thanks, dad." He turns to look into the man's scarred face, marked from years of being in the family business. The music rises, their cue to walk. He offers his elbow, and the younger man hooks his own in it.

They march in the procession. The total absence of Julian's family and the small size of DD's means that the turnout is low. Mainly friends. But it doesn't bother him; he doesn't even look at the crowd as he walks down the aisle, much more focused on the man at the end of it. He never cries - partial emotional numbness being an unfortunate side effect of his line of work - but he feels himself welling up when he sees Julian struggling not to let tears fall.

He does take note of the two empty chairs at the front, reserved for Julian's parents. _Assholes_ , he thinks, then redirects his gaze to Julian, who smiles wide at him. DD's father lets go of his arm and takes his designated position, and DD steps up to take Julian's hands in his.

"Hi," Julian whispers, eyes sparkling. DD looks down at their hands, fitting perfectly together like the rest of them. He laughs softly.

"You look incredible," he says. He notices Julian's eyes flick to the vacant seats, but he comes back to DD quickly, his somber gaze fleeting.

"So do you."

The minister nods to them, a signal that he's ready to begin.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today..."

 

Julian’s laughter is as beautiful as the wedding bells tolling around them. He grabs DD's face with both hands, kissing him hard. Their friends and family clap for them. It feels as though the world claps for them.

 

"Your family sure is old-fashioned," Julian says, looking at the abundance of tin cans tied to the bumper of their shared '76 Mustang. DD chuckles and looks at Julian's happy face in the moonlight, backlit by the church, feeling like he'll never be tired of looking at him.

"As traditional as a group of hitmen can be." He leans against the trunk of the car, gazing up at the stars. "I'm sorry your parents didn't come."

"Part of me knew they wouldn't." Julian mirrors his position, touches his fingers against DD's wrist. He takes the hint and lets Julian hold his hand, squeezing lightly back. "But it's fine. You're my family now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> told y'all it was coming.......  
> i'm sorry this took so long haha ! hope y'all liked it. next chapter is focused on chris. thanks for reading xoxo


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